


claiming

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, M/M, Noctis doesn't quite become undead in this one, Noctis doesn't want to be a chew toy, Noctis is not crazy he's just unwell, Screw Destiny, Vampire Making Out, Vampires, he does want Prom very badly though, he just comes very very close to it, vampire!Prompto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12500252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: The sleepless nights are wearing Noctis down, and the pain is steadily eating away at his senses, at his reason.He's a little bit desperate, tonight.He's a little bit angry.He can't say what he needs because he doesn't know.Maybe Prompto knows, who knows.





	claiming

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot to be writing in only 48 hours but my muses are clocking up the overtime so you guys get to enjoy something too.

He takes a deep breath, another, another, in through his nose and out through his mouth. In and hold for seven counts, out and hold for nine. In, seven. Out, nine.

In, seven. Out, nine. 

And still he feels the need to grit his teeth, still he feels the need to cover his mouth, as though his own skin could stop the screams --

Like stone slowly grinding away into fine dust and fine earth, like the minutes creeping by in the endless nights, the pain in his back subsides.

But that’s not always the right word to describe the receding sensation in his skin. Flashing searing agony in his raw nerves, rushing gnawing, slowly reluctantly pulling away, the deeper he falls into his breathing pattern.

He tries, tries so hard, to wait the pain out.

Then:

His hands are in his lap where he’s sitting up clumsily in his bed, back still bowed over, hair in limp strands against his cheeks. His hands, palms up, holding one and then two and then a multitude of sparks, glitterflash of blue light.

Blue sparks slowly coming together into a familiar sword, into the familiar elaborations on the hilt and the cross-guard. The length of it, the breadth of it, and the sharp edges.

Should it have been pulsing and roaring into life in his hands? He never knows. He can only ever hear -- distant in this moment -- the familiar soothing thrum of motion, rumbling in the back of his mind, vibrating down the back of his neck.

But the vibrations stop somewhere just below his shoulders.

He frowns, grits his teeth, forces himself to look away from the thought.

Again, he breathes, and he wonders: why should the same breathing pattern that allows him to summon his sword, also allow his agonized heart to slow down from the coruscating flame of the old pain? Where does the link exist, between his old nightmares and the memory of the things that had knotted his back into a mess of raised scars, horrendous permanent etching into him? 

He has no idea.

He doesn’t want to think about that, either.

Most days he can slip away from thinking about it: slip away into sleep. Slip away into the contemplative quiet of a lure on a fishing line. Slip away into the cold logic of mathematics. (He doesn’t bother to show his proofs when he's presented with algebra, with trigonometry, with geometry, and that’s the only reason he’s half-failing his classes. 

(The truth is, when he looks at a board full of letters and numbers, variables and fixed quantities and all the ways in which these imaginary quantities can be manipulated, he doesn’t see the jumble. He doesn’t even see the symbols. He can see -- first principles, and the elegant cool lines of intuition and deduction both. 

(But he hates to show the proof and so the tests come back with red question marks.)

Today he hasn’t even bothered to get out of bed, and the day has run away from him completely, and the neon fog and the neon lights of Insomnia, far below his apartment, wash the walls with pallid gleam and restless backwash glow.

Hunger gnaws at his guts, and thirst claws down his throat, and his mind is screaming to be let out of its confines. Out of the cage of his thoughts, out of the prison of his nerves, but -- the pain is still eating away at him and he loses the breathing pattern for just a moment.

Just enough for his nerves to scream bloody murder once more, and Noctis collapses in rage and in tears, clammy and sour with his own sweat, with his own blood drying in crescents beneath his fingernails where he’s been clenching his fists hard enough to wound --

Tap, tap, tap, on the window.

Three taps that never fail to jolt at him, to catch at him, impatient demand for attention.

His apartment is on the forty-fifth floor. The panes of tinted glass, floor to ceiling, are the wall on that side of the apartment. Sheer drop out the window to the uncaring sidewalks far down below.

Nothing but that sheer drop, and the wind and the emptiness of the lowering sky, the starless night.

But there’s a shadow tapping on the window.

There’s a soft whisper that he can hear, where he’s swallowed up by his bed, where there’s a familiar agony roaring in his ears.

A whisper of “Let me in.”

The pain steals Noctis's breath away, greedy as always and feasting relentlessly on him, and he has to gasp, once and again, before he can answer, in a choked half-scream: “Come in!”

Glittering midnight eyes and that beautiful strange burnished-golden hair, in its wild wind-tossed disarray, and long fingerless gloves wrapped around slender wrists.

One moment outside the windows, and in the next he’s standing whole and there next to the bed.

Prompto’s inhuman eyes narrow, black burnished with starlight, no pupils and no iris and no trace of white at all: and Noctis, still robbed of his reason, gives in to the prey’s instinct to hide his face.

Hide his pain, hide his weakness --

“I said it before. Don’t hide from me.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

That’s an order.

He hears the implacable power beneath that soft lilting voice.

He knows it to be an order, and he knows he’ll displease Prompto, if he continues to hide.

But he can’t help but curl in on himself, desperately trying to become small, the breathing patterns fled from his mind completely, as the pain slashes and stabs at him, as though he were being run through again and again with the same sword he’d been studying earlier --

“That bad?” Prompto asks, and the bed gives and groans and shifts --

(No person as slender as Prompto looks ought to be that heavy. No person as whipcord thin should be that overwhelming. Immense presence in the world that Noctis chokes on now, like being tangled in silk, like being strangled in kisses -- )

Arms, wrapping around him, turning him, firmly. He’s a doll, he’s a plaything, in these hands, icy on his skin -- so cold they bring him relief from the pain.

He throws himself against Prompto, shudders in mindless ecstasy, as the cold of Prompto chases the burning pain away.

“Come on, you know I can do much better than that,” Prompto says, and cold as the voice is, it’s also nothing but encouraging. Nothing but welcoming. “Take it from me. Take what you need.”

“P-please?” Noctis stutters, and blindly he leans toward the sound of Prompto’s voice, the source of that voice -- cold cold lips meeting his. Cold cold mouth kissing him. Tongue, like ice, spearing into him, and he moans and presses wildly closer. Almost forgets to breathe.

He starts shivering almost immediately.

Shivering is good, shivering means he’s cold, means he’s not burning and burning in his pain --

Rip and tear, the careful gentle catch of sharp nails on his skin that never draw blood but do go through days-old clothes in a matter of a moment, and he’s pressed full-length and naked against Prompto, cold everywhere they’re touching, mouths locked in rimed kisses, frost-touched hands roaming over his scars.

He whispers need need need against Prompto’s icy mouth: “Help me kiss me kill me have me -- ”

But Prompto hisses, and pulls away suddenly.

Leaving Noctis on a thwarted sob: “Why?”

“Is frostbite any better than,” and he feels Prompto’s hand brush against his bare shoulder, back and down until he can’t feel it any more.

“If I don’t have to feel it, then -- yeah,” he says, without really understanding what he’s saying.

“It is only numb for a short period of time -- you will feel it, and it will hurt, when you start losing your fingers. Your toes.”

“You try living in pain like mine,” Noctis snaps.

And the response is a quiet sweet smile, unsettling when the shift of the lights outside the window catches on the points of Prompto’s teeth: a multitude of sharp points, the extended lethal canines. “I already have.”

Those wide midnight eyes fix on him, and Noctis nearly nearly quails. 

“Didn’t I tell you? I died in a snowstorm. In the middle of the night. I felt my blood turn to ice in my veins. I felt the touch of the one who came back to find me. The last thing I felt was teeth, and -- I died, my blood freezing even as it was taken from me.

“And I came back, born in pain, unwilling.”

Noctis stares.

Lifts one hand to touch that ice-stained cheek.

Relief spreads through him, to feel that cold skin beneath his.

He’s heard the story before, and he’d never looked away, he’d never been afraid -- only felt like he was drowning in compassion, drowning in a twisted understanding, because: Prompto is what he is now because of a decision that he didn’t make, that was forced upon him by others.

Noctis is what he is now in exactly the same way: he didn’t make the decision to be born, and he never made the decision to be a prince, because he just was, by fiat. 

So he nods, and he repeats himself: “Help me. Kiss me. Kill me. Have me.”

The pain is still there in the back of his mind.

But it seems to have retreated in the face of Prompto, of his cold shape in the world, walking always alone, in the darkest corners of the night.

“I will not be responsible for the death of your family, for the end of your bloodline,” Prompto is saying, now.

Noctis grins, and knows there’s nothing happy in his grin. “So you’ll come to me like this, and you know like I know that I’m going to die because fate and destiny and all that shit wants me to.”

Storm in those dark eyes. “Fate? Destiny? Yes. They say you have something important to do.”

“Something important that I don’t want and I can’t do. But it’s me who gets landed with it. And I -- I am destroyed every day by my pain. I hate that pain and on top of that I hate every instant of my destiny. No one is going to help me out. No one is going to -- heal me. So tell me, is that all I am? 

“Can’t I want kindness?"

“Kindness is what you deserve,” he hears Prompto say.

“So do it,” Noctis says.

Pause.

Only Noctis breathes, waiting for the response.

And Prompto looks away. 

Whispers, “I refuse.”

Noctis hates himself for sobbing.

“Well you’re just like everyone else after all.”

He turns his back on Prompto, and almost welcomes the pain that throbs in his skin once again.

Tries to put his feet on the floor on the other side.

He can try to get up and walk away and -- then what?

“Fuck,” and his bed groans, the presence of Prompto leaving --

But it’s the floor next to his feet that is cracking. Frost in long winding snaking lines, radiating. Icy hands settling on his left wrist.

Icy hands on him, and midnight eyes looking up into his.

“Let me in,” Prompto whispers.

The light in the room, poor as it is, keeps catching on Prompto’s teeth, on the sharp edges piercing past his small smile.

He watches as Prompto runs his tongue over his teeth, showing off, showing him -- 

Noctis’s eyes widen as he understands.

So he swallows, and he tries: and again the breathing pattern that summons his sword.

The blade hovers perilously close to his skin.

And on all the other nights he’d never been cut, not even when he ran his fingertips right past that gleaming edge -- 

This time he slashes himself open with no more than a thought, with no more than his wish that the sword cut.

And Prompt leans in, almost delicately, lapping up the blood that Noctis has drawn from himself, and -- he moans, Prompto moans, and Noctis is completely lost in him.

He can’t take his eyes away from Prompto’s eyes falling shut, from the lines in Prompto’s face contorting in vivid pleasure.

And the more he stares the more he wants to give it --

He wants to slice himself open again, all over, even in his scars if any blood could still be pumping beneath those old layers upon misshapen layers of skin, raised and ugly and twisted -- slice himself open and lay himself bare to Prompto at last -- 

His blood staining Prompto’s mouth.

It’s his turn to moan, shivering with the impact of it, when Prompto carefully licks his skin -- the wound closing, softly, leaving not even a paler line to show that it had ever been there.

But Prompto is smiling, and bringing his own wrist up to his mouth -- flash of sharp edges, and he’s opened his own wrist, and his blood is darker than Noctis’s, slowly spreading across his pale pale skin --

And the movement that Prompto makes when he offers that bleeding wound up to Noctis, makes the blood splash on Noctis’s face.

He nearly cries out in shock: for Prompto is cold like winter’s heart, but the blood in his veins is still warm -- but of course he’d just been drinking from Noctis, feeding on him -- maybe that’s the answer.

Prompto is offering him his blood.

Like falling, like calling his sword, like logic and a clean solution to a word problem: Noctis seizes Prompto’s bleeding wrist, and drinks.

He’s drinking in the rushing torrent of the cold and of the night, like bitter salt, like screams, his own screams of pain that he can’t hear --

The rushing torrent that freezes him from inside out and now he can’t feel anything.

Not even his pain.

Like a thunderclap breaking right inside his mind: there is no more pain.

There is only a silent shocked sense of relief, blessed and far too new, thrumming through him.

He cries out, yearning, when Prompto laughs and pulls his wrist back -- Noctis leans forward, chasing him -- and Prompto says, “Any more, and you and I will be -- kin. Any more, and I will have to turn you. You would be like me in truth.”

He blinks, tries to think through the lust for blood, for Prompto. “Wait -- I’m not yet like you?”

“That is why I stopped you: I did not wish for you to cross that line, not without you knowing.” Bitterness, slipping into that still-laughing face. “You are not like me, and you are not as you were before. What you are is -- different. You are in thrall to me now. Can’t you feel it in your blood?”

Noctis thinks about it for a moment.

And there’s a tide in his body that turns him desperately towards Prompto’s presence, Prompto’s unlife.

A tide that swallows him whole, that sharpens the bloodlust and leaves him keening with need.

Helplessly Noctis falls forward, licking clumsily at Prompto’s stained mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Prompto says.

He’s on the floor, naked and pinned and so so so needy, and Prompto’s kiss has more than teeth in it: every kiss a fresh link in a chain, a chain that binds Noctis in tight tight tight turns, and -- he understands this, in a way that pierces him through to the very marrow of his bones, the very roots of his need: 

Now, he’ll live and die on Prompto’s existence.

And that is so much better than what he used to be.

He begs, all thoughts of shame wiped from his mind, and Prompto is all he can see and smell and taste and feel -- hands and mouth and cock and those night’s-heart eyes, on him, in him, right through into the heart of him that’s slowly, slowly freezing.

“Let me in,” Prompto is saying.

“Yes,” Noctis says, and -- he is grateful, and he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
